The butterfly, the cabbage white, (His honest idiocy of flight) Will never now, it is too late, Master the art of flying straight, Yet has — who knows so well as I? — A just sense of how not to fly: He lurches here and here by guess And God and hope and hopelessness. Even the aerobatic swift Has not his flying-crooked gift.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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